He could find water with a hazel prong--Which showed how much good school had ever done him.He wanted to go over that. But most of allHe thinks if he could have another chanceTo teach him how to build a load of hay----""I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.He bundles every forkful in its place,And tags and numbers it for future reference,So he can find and easily dislodge itIn the unloading. Silas does that well.He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.You never see him standing on the hayHe's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.""He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd beSome good perhaps to someone in the world.He hates to see a boy the fool of books.Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,And nothing to look backward to with pride,And nothing to look forward to with hope,So now and never any different."Part of a moon was falling down the west,Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.Its light poured softly in her lap. She sawAnd spread her apron to it. She put out her handAmong the harp-like morning-glory strings,Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,As if she played unheard the tendernessThat wrought on him beside her in the night."Warren," she said, "he has come home to die:You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.""Home," he mocked gently."Yes, what else but home?It all depends on what you mean by home.Of course he's nothing to us, any moreThan was the hound that came a stranger to usOut of the woods, worn out upon the trail.""Home is the place where, when you have to go there,They have to take you in.""I should have called itSomething you somehow haven't to deserve."Warren leaned out and took a step or two,Picked up a little stick, and brought it backAnd broke it in his hand and tossed it by."Silas has better claim on us you thinkThan on his brother? Thirteen little milesAs the road winds would bring him to his door.Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day.Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich,A somebody--director in the bank.""He never told us that."